Chillin' In Nawleans

I Did It!!

The Wave Was Traumatic

Mushrooms And Snowballs

Early Morning Rush

5:15am Block Party

In The Still Of The Night

Nicole And Others

Hopefulness Is How I'd Have To Describe It

Even The Wendy's Is Cool

Joke About an Elephant

Porkloin Breakfast Biscuit

Melted Ice Water and Crumpled Napkins

New Orleans Bound

This may be my last written post for awhile. We (meaning my sis and I and co) start our trip tomorrow. We'll spend the night in Kentucky (I think) and then on to NOLA on Sunday. I will keep you all posted on audioblogs.

WHEE HAW!! : P

From Shoddy To Hottie In Five Days!

There is only one problem with trying to look like a hottie after years of general dowdiness. It ain't easy! I have bags under my eyes, big pores, and flabby muscles. (My hair, however, looks awesome, per usual. Thanks, hair!) But the rest of me has a general lack of the je ne sais quoi I was known for in my youthier youth. How’d that happen? Or rather why? I think the answer is summed up in these two magical words: Cleveland Secretary. You say it once and you’ll know what I mean. For one thing, not all attention is good attention. I mean, there are men and then there are men. And getting your ass checked by the quality control squad every time you walk down the street takes the fun right out of dressing up perty. Yes it do. Secondly, I'm a writer/filmmaker wannabe. Being a "hottie" is not in the job description. I'm sure. I checked. Artist chicks are supposed to look intelligent and slightly brainy. They're supposed to give off that I'm-successful-and-love-has-passed-me-by vibe and I do. In spades. But now I'm trying to translate that into pouty, teen queen femininity. Wish me luck.

If nothing else, I have spent a boat load of money on myself! I feel pretty good about that.

Noble Maloof, My Stalker: Part Deux

I admit I was slightly relieved when Noble Maloof actually waved at me timidly on the bus this morning. I was sure he didn’t like me after he gave me the cold shoulder a few days ago. Turns out, he either changed his mind or he was never mad at me in the first place.

This morning he chased me off the bus… again. I was walking briskly (as I always do) to the city building with big glass doors, when suddenly I heard the pitter-patter of little feet. I thought to myself, tell me that’s not Noble Maloof running up the pavement after me, when – too late – the reflection in the glass doors confirmed my suspicions. Noble Maloof was indeed chasing me down. I needn’t tell you how ridiculous I felt being tagged around town by a panting, puffing old man in a cabby hat. "Sarah!” he managed to say between gasps as he caught up with me. "Oh, hello,” I said, trying to act surprised. "I brought you some French jam!” he said.

Now, seriously people, when Noble Maloof envisioned this conversation earlier this morning, do you think he blurted out the words, “I brought you French jam!”? I really doubt it. I also doubt he envisioned himself bent over double, trying to catch his breath as he said it. But at least he didn't make me wait around. He got right to the heart of his mission. No dilly-dallying.

He fished around inside his little bedraggled green bag and produced a jar of French strawberry jam carefully wrapped in a sandwich bag. “Oh, how sweet!” I said. Which was kind of an obvious thing to say about jam, but well, I was a little shocked to be honest and I was also thinking about how happy you all would be about this little turn of events. So I just smiled and thanked him. Then came the kicker: "If you want more… call me and I’ll get you some.” He smiled faintly and slapped my shoulder and said, “Cheerio!”

Where did he come up with this scheme? Who said that was a good idea? Do you know how long it will take me to eat an entire jar of French jam? Months, years, decades. I won’t be calling Maloof for more jam anytime soon. Seriously people, is there a book out there for old men on how to attract younger women entitled, “What To Get The Girl Who Doesn’t Want Anything … from you”? It probably would say something like, “First acknowledge the girl loudly on public transportation. Make sure to get her name (even a false one) at any cost! Next follow her into a building and question her about the name and give her your number. If this fails to produce a phone call, give her the cold shoulder while you think up another strategy. Next, give her something sweet to eat. Preferably candy, or chocolates or tea biscuits (Jam’ll do in a pinch). Then sit back and wait for her phone call...”

Good grief.



The proffered jar of jam.

Change Is Good, Right?

You know what's weird about this American Idol experience? (Besides the fact that I'm trying to build my fan base on the internet.) I'll tell you...

I like it.

I like almost everything about it. I like being in a hurry, working on audition pieces, decking myself out. It's a nice kind of a life. I wake up when my alarm rings these days. Not four snooze-buttons later. I work out twice a day (while wearing Crest Whitening strips: my teeth are noticeably whiter!) I'm actually taking care of myself like I probably should have been for a while now, but haven't bother to. The sad things is, I'm living like I want to live. Like I have a purpose. Like waking up is for a reason. And that reason is not just to earn money.
Am I crazy? Isn't that the way you're supposed to feel every morning if you are doing what you love? I realize I'm getting a bit psycho-analytic here and will probably give myself a mental swirly if I think about this stuff too hard, but I tell you what; if this is how fun it is just to try something then I should probably be working a little harder to DO. And if I don't. If I come back after being turned away at the first audition and slink back to my desk job and continue blogging about the habits of bats in equitorial africa from the weasly comfort of my underpaid, boring desk job... please kick me in the pants. Please.

Do Your Homework, Know Your Divas

In order to mold my young impressionable mind into a pop star machine (that's fun to say!), it seemed necessary to study up on the pop scene, get a feel for it and really know it. Let's face it, I don't own a Christina or Beyonce album. So, I got on the ball and checked out some videos and albums from the library. I don't like to be unkind, but the divas' video cassettes are slightly stickier than other videos in the collection... OK, I'm not gonna think too hard about that one.

Needless to say, I have a newfound respect for Madonna, but J-Lo I distrust implicitly. Oh, and Britney is a consummate performer who still looks like Disney even after all her professional reputation tarnishing sessions. She's just so sweet!

So, I've been dancing with Tina Landon, practicing vocal sounds, reading magazines and just generally trying to become in three days what I'm not: A Pop Star.

Isn't this a great country?

All My Hopes Going Down The Sitter

The road to stardom is paved with pitfalls. And potholes. And horse shit.

There is a kink in the plans! El Fid, mother of three that she is, was planning to drive the 16 hours with me from Cleveland to new Orleans. With mini-baby in tow. UNfortunately, her other two boys have a distinct lack of childcare in her wake. Fortunately, she was asking around for babysitters. UNfortunately, they can't get one. So now, I may need to book an emergency flight down to NOLA alone (duhn- DUHN!) and lack the brilliant supervision there that I have enjoyed here thus far. This is not the end of the world. My other sis is waiting with open, hair-spritzing arms. And I am prepared to do whatever it takes. Spend all my money. Lose my job. Whatever happens, I'm going!

But it just won't be the same.

This was gonna be our "crazy sister adventure!" The Thing We Will Talk About For Years. The episode of our lives when we actually did something goofy-silly together and laughed our asses off in the process... This IS our ultimate prank!

Will someone please babysit my sister's two boys? Please. PLEASE!!!

*sigh*

Them There Eyes!

The best part of auditioning for a reality TV show is revamping your wardrobe, your hair, makeup, in fact, everything.

I went in last night for contacts. Poof! Just like that I can see without glasses. Now those of you not chained to a pair of specs may not appreciate the freedom that comes from seeing halfway across the room without them. I left the doctor’s office and wandered the mall. At one point I entered a mirrored section of the hall. And I saw… me. “Hey there,” I waved slightly. I could see my fingers. I smiled. I saw my smile. And my eyes! Haven’t seen them in years. They are frickin’ HUGE! *blinkblink* Then I had to keep moving because people were looking at me weird.

On my out, I saw a kiosk of forbidden fruit: sunglasses. You can’t wear sunglasses when you have glasses. It just isn’t an option. Unless you want to wear those dumb flip ups that look like concession stand awnings. Or prescription sunglasses. In which case you fumble between both pairs and end up crushing one in your bag. But here and now, I not only could buy sunglasses, but I should buy them. A full day of NOLA sun demands eye protection. I tried on everything in sight, ended up with some Paris Hilton-esque knock-offs that are all the rage with the children.
Woot! I am looking Sooo Good!

Sing For That Supper!

Children, you know I come to you for help when I need it and you always come through for me. I appreciate this. I really... I do.

So, I need your help! I need possible audition songs for American Idol auditions in New Orleans. Something that doesn't need back-up music to sound good and that will suit my voice. (Go here if you have never heard my voice) I will only have about fifteen seconds to make an impression (if we're being honest) and broadway, jazz, coutry, and gospel are somewhat frowned upon, so put your thinking caps on and tell me what the hell to sing to these people!!

I'm counting on you, dear internet, to give me suggestions that will catapult me to instant fame and fortune.

No pressure...

Noble Maloof, The Athlete

The bus was fairly crowded this morning. Noble Maloof was sitting next to - surprise surprise - a white woman. I've noticed he prefers white women as bench bus companions to all others and he will never speak to a fellow passenger unless they are a white woman. Wonderful.

I take a seat up front as the bus drives on and suddenly Noble's voice rings out, (You haven't forgotten that he's practically deaf, have you?) "I really admire the high jumpers, you know." "Do you?" his companion-of-the-moment says politely. "Yes, they have a great deal of skill you know," he said. There was a slight pause in the conversation, probably because the other woman didn't know what to say. I mean obviously if a high jumper is any good he or she has skill. That's what makes them a "high" jumper. If they had no skill they wouldn't get very high and would be called "low jumpers" or "chump" or something derogatory. But anyways, back to the conversation... "I used to do the high-jump," said Maloof, loudly, for all the bus to hear. Several heads turned to look at the shrivelled old man in the cabby hat. "When I was younger," he qualified. "Oh, did you," said the nice, white lady. "Are you watching the Olympics?" she said, probably still trying to make sense of the overall meaning of the conversation. "What?" he said. "Are you watching the Olympics on TV?" she asked again. "No, no," he said, "I couldn't do that anyways. (here he chuckled) You see, I have no television." If the nice white lady responded, I didn't hear it. The bus roared onto the highway.

Spitting Distance

Ok, so I'm walking in to work, I'm not particularly tired, but I do have a revolutionary crick in my neck. I'm minding my own business and thinking, "Ok, let's get Tuesday out of the way" when I notice the scraggly-bearded guy with the beer belly standing in the doorway to my building. Smoking. Which is fine. I don't particularly care. I mean if he wants to dress in sad sack clothes and hang out in front of buildings downtown he's allowed, right? He's just being him.

I'm enjoying the breeze. I'm walking. He coughs. What's that? Rain? No. It's not rain. It's saliva. I've just been baptised by the fat guy in the doorway thanks to a good head wind.

Yummy.

How I Will Win American Idol

Ok, so I'm not going into this whole American Idol audition experience by myself. No sirree! I'm in this crazy project with a team of experts I like to call "Sisters."

That's right. Sisters are backing me as I throw caution to the wind and barreling into the void of jobless rejection that faces me. Whee Haw!! bring on the resume rewrites!

The one sis is queen of the catwalks. She knows what's IT and what's SHIT. And I'm depending on her to not let me look like a barroom reject at the auditions. She controls the "look." She is the makeup mamma. The couture queen. So anything you see on television (haha, as if) will probably be her doing. Unless it looks bad, in which case, I squarely take the blame.

The other sis is the orginization maven. She books the rooms, plans the budget for the trip, sets appointments for my hair, nails, contacts. She tells me what to eat, how to exercise, and says nice things like, "Don't worry about anything except singing and being healthy." She does all the work behind the scenes and then tells me what's done. Good lord, it's addictive!

So, anyways, after this week, I'll be so spoiled and fat and sassy no one will be able to tolerate me and I'll end up getting fired from my next three jobs, finally ending as part-time manager of the Pizza Palace.

It's just so sad! Think what she might have been!

Feel free to join me on my trip. I want you to. Really!

Good Morning, Bloggers!

My comments spring all the boys to the blog! My blog is better than yours...

Alright. So, here it is Monday morning and I just told my boss that I'm taking a week's leave of absence. She's not happy. I didn't tell her the truth; that I'm going to New Orleans to audition for American Idol. That would've really put her in a foul mood. Instead I told her nothing. Always a good answer when you don't want to lie. If she asks though, there are "family issues" that need working out. That trick always works. >:)

But, yes, I'm going to NOLA, and you, dear reader, are going with me.

I should arrive on Sunday night. On Monday, at 6:00am I'll line up with the other wannabes outside the superdome. Sometime on Tuesday I'll get my 29 seconds of audition time for the producers. If they like me, I chill in NOLA till the "judges" show up. If they like me they'll send me to Hollywood. Exciting, huh? Truthfully, I'll be lucky if I even get into the superdome at all. If I'm number something-too-high-or-other in line they can jolly well turn me out. Iffy, folks, it's iffy.

But I do it for you, dear internet! To amuse and confuse you. Because I care that much about your entertainment. It'll be like a slumber party with 8,000 giggly teens! And I'll leave you audioblogs about what's happening and even introduce you to people I meet there so you can feel like you're a nineteen year old auditioning to be a pop star! Oh, yeah! Superstar!!

The Scribbler

It was through ze frank's blog
that I stumbled on this
very entertaining invention.
It's called The Scribbler.
Please enjoy it if you have
a minute free.

Bookstore Economics

20 mints @ 60¢ a box = 3¢ per mint.
Seems a bit steep to me...
And they look sickly in this photo.
Just lets you know, whoever
took this photo, did it herself.

Noble Maloof Doesn't Like Me : (

This is sad, folks, just sad! Noble Maloof doesn't love me anymore. For those of you not paying attention or just gliding by on the internet autobahn, this is a continuation of the old geezer meets girl, old geezer loses girl saga from previous posts.
This morning on the bus I took the bench in front of him and said loudly (because he's a little deaf), "Good morning!"
Nothing. Just an icy stare out the window.
Is he mad at me? I don't know. I only know that Noble Maloof was on the bus, but Noble Maloof was not happy. Do you think this dessicated kidney researcher did a Google vanity search and found this blog? And as he read each page, his heart sank further and he stealed his wiry old nerve to never, ever speak to me again!
I'm just making this up. I really don't know. Probably he just couldn't hear me over the silence of the stopped bus. That's more likely.

I hope his phone has a volume button...

They're Called "Haw Flakes"

And they're pretty much what you'd expect... if you were expecting haw flakes.
I bought them for my birthday (I buy myself lots of stuff on my birthday. It conceals the fact that no one else is buying me things) on a whim. I mean, come on, who wouldn't buy a package of Haw Flakes for only 49cents? Needless to say, the first generation checkout girl said, "I remember those. I used to eat those all the time as a kid." She said they were kind of chewy, but not like gum.
So, there you have it. They are kind of chewy and they are dissimilar to gum, but they taste vaguely of pears. Dried pears. That was the closest food comparison I could make. I actually rather like them. haw haw. I need sumore.


Haw flakes are available at
fine asian import stores
everywhere!



Ok, so apparently there is no
false advertising here. Haw Flakes
are made with haw. Good to know...

Not much to look at, but darn tasty.

Yesterday's News

(click to enlarge)

Check you out, readers! Soaring through the page load stratosphere! Way to go. That really tall peak was yesterday's hits. Almost doubled in one day. How cool is that?

*sniff* I feel almost popular.

So, Now What?

Ok, people, I realize your insatiable apetite for drama and gossip was too quickly appeased with the whole "Tara is lost, Tara is found in a single hour" deal. Believe me, if I could have spread the whole experience out over four months of agonized, intensive searching, false leads, and freakish coincidences, I would have. Oh, yes, I would have. But as fate would have it, the general tidyness of this experience has left the story pretty much concluded and rightly so. I mean seriously, If you think I was gonna wait around for two or three weeks "pretending" to look while the number was right under my nose, you're crazy. I don't have that kind of patience. Besides that's kind of manipulative and believe me, dear reader, I do not manipulate! You can take that to the bank!

What really matters here, people, is that you can say, "I was there when Sarah and Tara finally were reunited! I remember the tears and the hugs and I felt all warm and gooey inside for about four minutes!" And really, folks, that's what matters here. Am I right? Huh? Am I right?

So, without further ado, here's Tara's very own Blog! Oh, yeah!

Birthday Blondie

Smoking a Birthday cigar.

This was my first cigar! (and last?) Smoked in comfort on the back porch with mymo and his wife late at night. His wife said they were dry. Mymo said they were ok. It was rather dry, but was spicy and sweet, which was nice. We made a bunch of "tap that ash" jokes, which, frankly, were beneath us, but still hilarious.
Happy Birthday to me!

I Found My Classmate!

Thanks to the quick web reflexes of Worldgineer, I was able to call my old high school buddy Tara today. Crazy. Just crazy. I am all cheeks and smiles right now. We were both a little hyper to be in contact again.

I told her I was looking for a high school friend and did she go to my high school? She said yes. I said, "Class of 93?" "Yes," she said. "Oh cool," I said, "I'm Sarah H." "Oh, my God!" she said. "I can't believe I found you!" I said. "Me too, you," she said somewhat confusedly, "I can give you my current address and phone number and stuff and we can stay in touch." "Exactly," I said. So she did, and I did, and now we can.

*Sigh*

Thanks, dear Internet, for coming through for me in a pinch. I knew you would!

(Oh, and World, I owe you $20.)

Dance Dance, Baby!

Learn to Dance with the experts. Master all the moves. Dominate the dance floor or win them over with your smooth groove. A must for the beginning mover-and-shaker!

Jaws in Thirty Seconds

...and re-enacted by bunnies. Because they can.
(creds to pete at A Perfectly Cromulent Blog)

Find Your Classmates Online

High school friends. I have lost contact with them all. All. That's a lot of memories to not share anymore. I mean, you bond with these people over important life events, like slipping and falling on your way up to perform a song, or getting called "the wall" because you had no boobs as a thirteen year old. These are valued memories! And then for some reason you lose contact with these people the minute you turn in that cheap cap and gown. I personally have a quest to find one friend from high school: Tara W. I will find her before I die. Tara was my best friend. Or the closest thing to it. Ten inches shorter and two years older than me. We shared a lack of enthusiasm for tennis. We couldn't hit a tennis ball. No sir. Not if it were strapped to our racket. Then we took volleyball (also inept and we both bruised easily), folk dancing (since when is The Electric Slide a folk dance?), and swimming (so much chlorine you forget the urine!). I actually looked forward to those dumb classes.
And then there was the one slumber party I had my senior year. I was fifteen. Tara, myself and four other girls crowded into the attic and watched dumb movies. Everyone fell asleep during The Blob. Not me. I don't sleep during movies. Ever. So after the film, when I realized I was the only one awake, I quietly turned off the TV and played pranks on all the girls and went to sleep. Happier than I'd ever been.
She and I took voice lessons together. A group lesson where we would giggle and smirk while Jenny Somebody-or-other struggled up to a high A.
We were in Spanish class together. My "Spanish" name was Isobel. Hers was Carmen. Our teacher, Señor Smith, was a lonely bachelor. He always looked particularly sad near holidays.
And then of course there was our graduation where I squatted down to fit into the frame of several pictures taken of us together. I lost track of her after the ceremony since it was a triple graduation for my family: me, my brother and my sister, all freakishly graduating high school the same day despite being at least a year or three apart in age.
I tried hunting Tara down in the last ten years. Without success. She probably lives close by, married, with kids and yet I can't find her. Pretty soon I'll be clicking one of those dumb banner-ads for findyourclassmates.com and have to shell out the twenty bucks or whatever for this stalker site to look her up so I can call her and act like I just found her name in the phone book or through a mutual friend and then a "so, hey, how are things going and would you like to get together for coffee" type conversation will ensue.
Maybe Tara is internet savvy and will stumble across this post today and say, "Hey, I remember all that crap! I know that girl!" and write me a note and save me the twenty dollars. Maybe.

What Would Brian Do?

Or "why I'm jealous of people I don't even know."

I just realized that the cinderella kid four blogs over is having a kind of popularity boom. He's got like seventeen sniveling readers (myself included) who run around his blog and post comments every day just to be "in on" whatever he says. Reading, rereading and waiting for the next post, even if all he says is, "I got nothing." I mean, what the hell, Brian? How do you do it?

And then I got serious. I asked myself, "Self, what do you want from your blog? What do you really want from all this? What is your goal?" And that's when it hit me: I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I mean, to tell the truth, I just jump from scatterbrained thing to thing on my blog without caring or thinking about what I'm doing. Which is what Brian does. Sorta. Except he writes more content. It's more personalized. Like the bed wetting thing. That's really honest. So I don't really have that going. And unlike Brian, my readership doesn't consist of gigglers and smiley-facers who end their comments with things like xxxooo and "U R Soooo kul!" and a bunch of winky smiles. I mean, for crying out loud! The only readers I have are engineers and tax preparers, web analysts and school administrators. And they don't always post a comment either. Most are content to sift through the strange data I have collected, take a token link and be on their merry way. Sure they visit, but they don't say anything. And the fact that they don't feel compelled to comment intrigues me. Is it because they have nothing to say? Perhaps. Is it because I don't say anything? Possibly. I mean, I very rarely write about myself. I am about the only thing I don't write about. I write about Southern Right Wales and ten ton chickens and the latest soho images. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna write out a story about what's going on now or about what happened to me in the recess yard in the fourth grade when that prig Natalie told everybody I liked Brandon before I could decide if I really did or not.

Well, I've decided to change all that! I've decided to get my blog with the evolutionary program! Using Brian as my role model (poor bastard), whenever I post, I'll stop and ask, "How would Brian misspell this?" or "What would Brian say here to get a smiley face?" and that's what I'll write. I promise you'll still get your quirky links. But now with more personal stories...

...if I can think of one.

On Turning Twenty Seven

Today is my birthday. Cake and ice cream day. The one day a year I reflect on my life and feel momentarily miserable before plunging into self-absorbed revelry.

Time to go play...

In Sight

Blind people don't mind if you stare at them on the bus. It's not even rude! How cool is that?

For random Friday photos, take a peek at some Slovakians flying kites.

Have a great weekend!

Noble Maloof, My Stalker

So, I thought my adventures with Maloof were about over when he asked for my name and told me about kidneys on the bus a few weeks ago. But I was wrong. Very wrong. Even if I had forgotten about Noble Maloof, Noble Maloof had not forgotten about me. Far from it.

This morning he chased me into a city building and mumbled out a greeting and then said, "I thought you'd given up on me." "Given up on you?" I said, "Why?" "Well, he said,"because I looked up your name in the phone directory and I couldn't find you. In fact they told me there was no 'Sarah Hoagland' in Cleveland." "Oh," I said. "I thought you'd given me a false name," he said mournfully. "Did you?" I asked and then added, "I'm not listed because I have no phone." (which, is kinda true, you understand) "No phone??" he asked. "Yes," I said. I was beginning to get a queer feeling about this old gent. "You see, I wanted to call you," he said looking pleadingly in my eyes. "Did you?" I answered, "What about?" "I wanted to show you some of my paintings," he said. Hehe, can you believe it? A ninety year old geezer wants to "show me his paintings." I supressed a laugh and said, "Oh, how nice." "Let me just give you my number," he said, fumbling in his pocket for a notepad. After scrawling out his number in shaky writing, he handed me the paper and said, "You attract me. I hope you don't mind." "As a friend?" I asked innocently, "of course not!" He looked so pitiful as I pumped his hand in farewell, that I began wondering why on earth this tiny, little, old Brit should think I would want to start something. I later realized that he must have jumped off the bus to follow me since his stop isn't for some miles down the road. Tsk.

Who knows, maybe this time next year my name will have changed to Sarah Maloof. If it does, call the cops...


I mean, I know wolves have kidneys, but are you sure you want them on your paper when hitting on people fifty years younger?

...AND THE WINNER IS!

The preposterous name contest has come to a close and the winners have been selected! Winners will receive fabulous prize(s)*!

Now, because so many entered the competition, names were judged in three categories:
Most Preposterous Name, Most Likely to Get Yourself Beat Up in Third Grade Name, and Most Enjoyable Name to Say Aloud.

'Most Preposterous' semi-finalists are:

Wantagh Photogene
Avon Beam Axis
Fishkill Transient Adaptation Factor
Gouverneur Tube
Vestal Luminous Exitance

And the winner is:

Fishkill Transient Adaptation Factor


'Most Like to Get Beat in Third Grade' semi-finalists:

Melville Footlambert
Elmhurst Nit
Mr. Hicksville Phot, Jr.
Penn Yan Cup
Buffalo Bubble
Fishkill Footlambert


And the winner is:

A tie between "Buffalo Bubble" and "Melville Footlambert"


And finally, in the Funnest to Say Aloud category, our semi-finalsists are:

Chappaqua Phot
Flushing Skylight
Manlius Matte
Ardsley Blondel
Setauket Sensation


And the winner is:

Chappaqua Phot
(it rhymes with callabra-jot!)

Thank you one and all for entering the competition! I had a good time just making the judges (my coworkers) pronounce these names. All proceeds go directly to charity. And all good intentions go directly to hell.


*Winners will receive a handmade flair pin of their choosing: Either a Simpson character pin, a brass monkey pin, or a one-of-a-kind "k_sra thinks I'm special!" pin. Please specify pin style and mailing address in an email to: ksrasra at gmail dot com.

Thanks for playing.

Feeling Blue?

You need to look at cute asian babies.

Here's my personal fave.

Hate your job? It could be worse...






like this...



...or like this...



...or this.

CONTEST!!

Go here and pick a first name. Then go here and choose a last name. Most preposterous name wins a prize (a good one, too).

[Multiple entries permissible. Login name required. Shipping takes two to six weeks. Contest ends August 12, 2004 at four PM EST. K_sra may not participate in this contest. Red rover red rover, the fine print is over.]

I believe this is a random Finnish band. Just tell me when they finnish...

My brother made this "home video" of summer vacation past. That's me, him, his son, and our dad in the pics. I'm sure you all want to see me blowing bubbles... lots and lots of bubbles. So damn many bubbles. I don't know why the hell I'm blowing so many bubbles.

Ten Questions for My Readers
1. Did you take full advantage of your college years?	No, not really. I wasn't aware I was allowed to.
2. What was the weather like during your first kiss?	nice, but boring. It was a lousy kiss. : )
3. Peanuts or pretzels?	Pretzels, I guess.
4. Do you have eye boogers right now?	Probably. I always have some kind of boogers.
5. Most bizarre crush:	G. K. Chesterton
6. Video game you most rock at:	Racing games (no, I don't know any exact names. come on, I'm not a gamer, just tell me YOUR answer...)
7. Most frequently called person in your life right now:	Siblings. It's pretty even across the board, but El Fid may be in the lead
8. You are facing open heart surgery. What do you do to prepare?	By a lot of shirts with high necklines.
9. What name, if any, did you want to have more than your own?	Rebecca was my childhood fave. I hate it now. Long story.
10. What is the most frightening thing you have ever had to do?	Waiting around to hear if my friend had died of an aneurysm.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

Questionnaire from LydiaOLydia
(you can answer it for yourself!)

Given a choice between Olive Oyl and Popeye, which would you save from the burning wreckage of a sinking ship?	Myself damnit. They have each other.
Blue is your favorite color. Explain.	Well, that's just it, what's to explain?
What is the worst thing you've ever eaten?	Willingly: dog food, unwillingly: a bug flying through the air.
When was the last time you swam unsupervised?	Three nights ago in my sleep.
Do you have a favorite mistake? If so, explain.	Cool question! Now what would my favorite mistake be? Hmm, I think the one time I answered the phone for Dix and Eaton by saying, "Dicks and Headache."
Under what circumstances should prayer be allowed in public schools?	When students with guns enter and start shooting.
Which is more annoying: an insistant cat or an apathetic one?	Tough call. I like my cats both ways.
Is there anything that is wrong to imagine?	Killing me.
How do you define good poetry?	Something that other people tell me is good poetry. (I am a philistine, I'm afraid)
Which is preferable: a quick wit or a slow temper?	I have the first, so I appreciate someone with the second.
You love J. S. Bach. Explain why in 5/7/5 haiku.	I love J.S.Bach Not for what he has written But for LydO's sake.
Why isn't your favorite color orange?	I look washed out in it.
How old should you be before drinking alcohol?	Old enough to lift the bottle yourself.
Should penalties for marijuana possession in the U.S. be strengthened or relieved?	Close the door, man...
How much money would it take to get you to eat a live, angry African Cave Spider?	Not much. Probably a buck fifty. You can kill it first, you know. Is it poisonous? Cause if it is, of course I'm not eating it!
How much water do you drink per diem?	per day? Seize the drink! About two liters, I suspect.
I like my men like my cocktails: neat, but with a twist. How do you like yours?	Men are like fine wine: they start out like grapes, and it's our job to stomp on them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you'd like to have dinner with.
Compose a limerick about facial hair.	There once was a girl from Argos, She grew a long hair from her nose, She let it extend till she tripped on the end and bled all over her clothes.
What is your favorite ethnic food?	Ethiopian. No, Indian.
What type of person is the most annoying?	The annoying one.
Which government leader deserves most to be shot or at least muzzled?	What diff does it make? They'll just be replaced in an hour by an even bigger grade A loser.
Where in the world IS Carmen San Diego?	San Diego?
Which Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream flavor is most inappropriately named?	Chunky Monkey
Assume an spherical cow. Discuss.	Would they float?
Are hamster exercise balls a good or a bad idea? Why?	Bad. Three of ours died behind the sofa in those death traps.
How many times will you let a person interrupt you before snapping at them in fury?	I don't snap, I just gently glide away.
What was your last deep thought?	forty feet. I work in the basement, they're all deep.
Is a person who plays a mean kazoo a musician?	Sure.
Assume there is no such thing as white. What color would your walls be?	Pink. It's the new white.
On a scale of 1-10, anathema being 10, how gross are dirty fingernails?	Depends on what's beneath 'em. Grease being less disgusting than, say, feces.

Brian's buncha questions
Last Cigarette:	I tried to smoke a pack when I broke up with my fiancé some time ago. Couldn't.
Last Alcoholic Drink:	five beers. in one night. never again.
Last Car Ride:	drive home from my sister's house.
Last Kiss:	see answer one.
Last Good Cry:	last night. but it wasn't good.
Last Library Book:	Complete Idiot's Guide to Handwriting Analysis
Last book bought:	Army Field Manual (for my brother)
Last Book Read:	see two up.
Last Movie Seen in Theatres:	theaters huh? been a while. I think Spidey2.
Last Movie Rented:	Sullivan's Travels. From the library.
Last Cuss Word Uttered:	unsure, probably fucking bastard.
Last Beverage Drank:	currently tea.
Last Food Consumed:	2 raisin cookies.
Last Crush:	The poor tennis coach.
Last Phone Call:	why is this field yellow? I've been trying to call my young friend who is in an abusive relationship for the last two days and it's killing me I can't reach her. (see "last good cry")
Last TV Show Watched:	fear factor couples, I bet. No, CSI:Miami.
Last Time Showered:	late last night when I couldn't sleep.
Last Shoes Worn:	you means the ones I have on now? Well, I wore them last also.
Last CD Played:	Nina Simone, Reflections
Last Item Bought:	I just bought a Sondre Lerche CD off the internet. Oh, and some work blouses as well.
Last Download:	Been awhile. I don't really download stuff. Probably adaware.
Last Annoyance:	Not being able to reach/help my young friend.
Last Disappointment:	See above.
Last Soda Drank:	Hmm, dr. pepper.
Last Thing Written:	"Hmm, dr. pepper."
Last Key Used:	"
Last Words Spoken:	How the hell should I know? That was fifteen minutes ago. Probably something depressing like, "If she doesn't come out on a stretcher first."
Last Sleep:	you mean like death?
Last Ice Cream Eaten:	fruit pops. Do they count?
Last Chair Sat In:	This one; an ugly black office swiveler.
Last Webpage Visited:	GAS? where I got to this link in the first place.

Random soldier of the day. (Actually, the whole website is pretty darn cool.)

I hate to do this to you, dear internet, but I can't keep this crammed in. It hurts too much. I am lethargic, unsteady, aching in my gut.

I have a nineteen year old friend. She's more like a sister. More like my daughter. More like someone I care about than just about anyone on the planet. I'm not sure why. I've known her since she was six. I am protective of her. I care about her.

She got married after her first boyfriend knocked her up at seventeen. He lied about his age. She was complicit. Until after they were married. He should have been prosecuted, but he wasn't. We let it go. I knew he was mentally unhinged, not quite right, lazy, unemployable, possessive, stupid, ugly... but I supported them, damnit. I called and talked to them both. I sent them cards and the occasional check, put both of their names on it so he wouldn't feel ostracized. Every week I called, I asked her, "How are you doing?" and I'd listen in the long pauses while the video game droned in the background to hear what she wasn't saying. To hear in the hesitance what she couldn't say to me. I waited and I waited and I listened. I listened when her husband butted in and interupted the conversation, when he shouted profanity at the video game. For my benefit. When he energetically started some cleaning project right in front of her while she was on the phone and demanded answers for whatever he was sorting. Always in the room, damnit. It wouldn't matter so much if they'd had a healthy relationship. She could have left things unsaid and it would be alright. "How are you?"

We're fine. Fine.

Of course, when I found out he was abusive and she had filed two restraining orders over the last year, I wasn't exactly blown down. There's too many signs for this to come as a shock to anyone. I heard fourth hand they were separated, third hand she and the baby would move in with her father, second hand she had returned "home" on Friday. And I haven't been able to reach her since. The phone just rings.

My sister tells me the average is 8 times leaving and coming back before a woman gets the guts, the courage, the sense to leave. That means six more times. I can't take it.

C'mon people, if you were really shaped like this you'd get made fun of!

random photo *shudder*

Hello Beautiful World!

I was just wondering why nobody's spent any time on my site today when I remembered I hadn't posted anything supremely witty and/or funny. My day began with nauseau and vomit*. Always a sure sign of a fan-TAS-tic morning. After three hours of that, I managed to down a bowl of hot soup and off to work! I'm a trooper! (and I'm also stupid. And Worldgineer tells me I'm wasting my youth. I'd like to see him puke all morning and then bounce off to work happy as a lark!)

So, for you hunter gatherers of information, here's a new word:

Fleer: to laugh or grimace in a coarse derisive manner, to sneer.

Used in a sentence it would look like this:

Worldgineer has been fleering my youth lately. But he's not so old himself. I don't know what he has to fleer about! I'm fleering right now about the fact that he can't juggle anymore (or maybe he never could! fleer, fleer).

*[I'm not pregnant. I just ate too much breaded shrimp last night.]

World's Most Backlit Photo. (and it's random!)
Check out her costume.

IMISSEDTHEBOAT for american idol whatever this year. right now at the Cleveland Brown's Stadium some 20,000 young americans are getting ready to audition for producers of the most beloved reality series, but i - well i'm not auditioning because "i'm too old." little did i know they just upped the audition age to 28. i try to comfort myself by remembering how beneath me the whole over-exposed farce really is, by how canned-corn god-awful the whole experience must really be and how i'm not trying to "make it" in the music industry anyways and how i need to smarten up and concentrate on more important things. *sigh* like cleaning out and reorganizing my boss' office while she's away on vacation. i can't believe i just said that. i feel like the red headed stepchild dumped on prom night after falling in a well. and i'm regressing! i can't even write capitals! my only comfort is that Tula might read this and laugh. :) Tula, if American Idol comes to a city near you, please audition! Please. Don't live to regret it as I have done.

[editor's note: I haven't really missed the boat, people. If I wanted I could go travel to some other wonderful US city to audition. I care, but not that much!]

Random foreign theater experience of the day.

Blog Envy

sometimes a blog is just a blog

My oldest brother's recent unemployment has somehow created a surge of blogitude in my family. In the span of two weeks blogs were blooming all along the family tree.

I have to think it's a phase. Surely this is too good to last. Right?

I don't know, but the future sure looks rosy
if we manage to sustain the trend.

Indexed:

Big Bro
Big Sis
Other Big Sis
Her Hubby
Other Big Brother
and of course me.

(I have two blogs, because the youngest child always needs more attention.)

this photo is particularly pleasing. arent russians crazy? love them russians. vodka puts more than hair on your chest obviously

its a monday


...so theres no use using punctuation capital letters or good grammar even

man am i tired