Another One Bites the Dust

(Thanks to All Hat No Cattle for this unauthorized use of their picture.)

It's bye bye, Bertie, and it couldn't happen to a more deserving guy. With Karl Rove also exiting, one gets the mental image of rats scurrying off a ship that is not only sinking but making that giant sucking sound as it goes under.

The Life Outside My Door

Those who know me at all know I'm a critter person. Finned, feathered or furry, I love 'em all. (I'm not crazy about the multi-legged, antennae'd crowd, but I'm working on it.) My friend E. calls me "Jim" from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, and to a certain extent, she's right. It can have fangs flashing, hackles raised, deep-throated growling going on, but if it's furry, finned or feathered, I'll likely try to make friends with it. And since I still have all my fingers (attached -- not, like, in a jar next to the bed), I reckon I've been pretty successful so far.

I dig critters. I can't help it. Some people are addicted to gambling. Some people have this deep biological need to spawn. Some people live in Springfield, Illinois. There are lots of inexplicable behaviors out there -- this is mine.

When I was 19, I gave up eating critters because I just couldn't do it anymore. The Donner party may have started in my home town, but I, for one, don't eat my friends.

But everything, and I mean everything, eats cat food. Who knew? It must be like manna from heaven, this stuff, because it's rare that I walk by my backdoor and there isn't something out there, face down in the bowl I leave out for my "guest cat," Siam. And after dark, it's even crazier. I have now learned to recognize the different crunching sounds made by cats, raccoons and opossums. (The stellar jays don't chew, so them I recognize when I hear what sounds like a herd of old ladies bitching about the service.)

My cats -- the indoor-only ones -- love to sit, perfectly safe, inside the gated back door and stick their perfectly safe tongues out at the raccoons. The raccoons, when finished with all the cat food, wrap their tiny little hands around my gate like prisoners who have been extraordinarily rendered to my back door. They can usually wheedle a second scoop of Purina for their efforts.

I try not to feed the critters too much. I don't want them to get dependent on me (except for Siam, who has a disability and can eat at my door as long as she needs), and I don't know if cat food fulfills all their nutritional needs. It's a little like Halloween, actually; they come around with their masks and knock politely, and I give them some treats and warn them to be careful and look both ways if they're planning to cross a street any time soon.

Hey, if you were that cute, I'd give you cat food too.

Rove Goes!

Karl Rove is set to resign by the end of August, so the race to destroy what little of America's democracy is left is on.

Apparently, and I know this is going to come as a shock, Rove is resigning to spend more time with his family. As excuses go, this one is thinner and less credible than Posh Spice. I realize it sounds better than, "I'm hoping the Democrats won't try to indict me on my many crimes, so I'm hightailing it to some island with an inbred, drooling, monkey-faced monarch I can manipulate and without an extradition treaty," and since when has Karl Rove ever opted for the truth? He leaves office as his entered it: with a smug smile on his face, a ready lie on his lips, and George W. Bush's testicles still firmly gripped in his white, doughy, fat little hands.

I'll celebrate anyway.

I'll celebrate even though his resignation will be as meaningless as his pledge to support the Constitution. I'll celebrate despite the fact that he'll still have a white-knuckled grip on the reins of power, and the Dems in Congress have so far proved unable or unwilling to undo the vast damage he has done. Why the yippees and the confetti?

Executive privelege. Civilians don't have it.

It'll be interesting to see if the Dems. have the will to go after Rove. Everybody knows the man is evil and his plan to attack Iraq was probably hatched over a bubbling cauldren of boiled virgins. Just because the "architect" of this murderous, misbegotten house of cards is resigning doesn't mean he's no longer responsible for what he set in motion.

Rove isn't going to sit quietly in Ingram, Texas, after all; he'll be on the phone daily, issuing orders, making threats, leaking names. It's time to hold the man accountable, and if he won't obey subpoenas, then we send an officer of the law to go get him. Yes, he's going to stick his tongue out and go "nyah nyah nyah" and try to hide behind the White House and executive privelege, but he's an ordinary citizen, despite the horns and pointy tail. Go get the bastard and put him in jail, if he won't comply. We have the power and the authority. If you have to wait until September 1st to get him out from behind Cheney's skirts, then fine. We've waited through 6 1/2 endless years; we can do another 18 days standing on our heads.

So, as Karl Rove emerges from the White House, head covered to avoid direct sunlight, we will begin hearing the voices which will no doubt be raised in nauseating praise of his commitment, his loyalty, his unwavering determination to support George W. in all his nefarious schemes. As he joins the swelling ranks of former Bush MisAdministration officials, he will be lauded by the last remaining neocons as a true patriot, a genius, a warrior.

Stomach-churning though that praise will be, we'll get through it with our eyes on the prize: he's leaving. And that's got to be good.

Now, who has Dog the Bounty Hunter's phone number?

Smoked by an Angel

OK, so have you ever pointed to a thick trail of smoke in the sky and said, "That's my smoke right there. That smoke's for me"? I'll bet not. I have. And here's why:

On Saturday, BF Toasty and I had planned to ride our bikes to the I-90 bridge to watch the Blue Angels do their annual thing of buzzing around noisily and generally being REALLY FRICKIN' COOL. Now, I'm as anti-militaristic as they come, and generally people in uniform had better be bringing me my mail or otherwise effing off, but I love the Angels. Can't help it. The noise, the speed, I love it. I would love it less if they were dropping bombs on my house rather than flying really really close together to impress me with how really really close they can get without whacking each other out of the sky, but there you are. So far so good.

Anyway, Toasty had stuffed his oversized bike into his car, and now the two were more thoroughly joined than a pair of amorous weimaraners.(fahrfegnugen!) He did a lot of tugging, I considered throwing a bucket of cold water on them, and by the time he got them apart, the Angels were already in the air. Too late to bike to our usual vantage point, we opted for cold drinks on the roof of my building.

I live on Beacon Hill, and my building has a sweet open rooftop deck from whence one might at least see the Blue Angels turn around. (It has to be a pretty nifty piece of machinery for me to be excited to see it turn around, for crying out loud.) So we stood and watched the Angels make a cul-de-sac out of a bit of sky over our heads.

At one point, the formation of four looped out from the lake, made a giant U-ey out of Elliot Bay, then headed back, my building dead ahead. They were coming straight at us, and me being the major Angel-hag, I started jumping up and down and waving. And then. Oh, then. Just as they came at us, the number four guy at the bottom of the diamond shot us a second's worth of smoke.

There's no smoke like Angel smoke, baby.

So, to the pilot in jet #4, the guy who would be playing 2nd base if this were a baseball diamond tipped up at home plate, thanks for the hello, Blue Angel style. You have no idea how you made my day.

Pen Snob

a Westminster Teal by Conway Stewart. One of only 100 made in the model of the original pen.

OK, and I don't really want an answer to this question, but what does it say about me that I have a "loaner" pen? I realized this the other day when one of my students asked to borrow a pen. I brought out my cheap Japanese pencil case (which I NEED -- it keeps the pens from stabbing holes in my pricey, posey, Timbuktu I'm-a-biker bag so just shut the heck up), dug through the pens in there, and was genuinely relieved to discover that I had a loaner.

The loaner, just like at the auto shop, is the crappy one. It's your basic narrow-barrelled ballpoint snoozer pen. It has no character, no vibrancy, it's just a pen, and I likely stole it from some place dull like a bank or one of my many schools. It may write perfectly well for years and years, or it may inexplicably stop writing in the middle of the next sentence. "Inexplicably" because you can't see the ink cartridge inside it, and you can't exchange it for another. It is, above all else, disposable.

The other pens in my case are these: a fabulous ultra-fine-tip marker bought at a Japanese store in Alderwood Mall. (My Japanese students always have the best pens.) I have a disposable fountain pen which I use only sparingly because of its transient nature. I have a mechanical pencil that uses the finest lead. You know the kind -- you look at it too hard and the lead snaps and puts out the eye of a boy across the room. These are not loaners, so don't even ask.

OK, even I acknowledge that my attachment to my writing instruments borders on the obsessive, but let me ask you this: what do you have that you won't loan out? Bloggers, let me hear it. Commentors, you too.

Incidentally, my loaner pen, the one I handed over to the kid in my class on Monday, never came back. Today's Friday. Having a spare loaner means I don't have to hunt the kid down and snap pencil lead in his eye.

Butt of Course

Bush to have colonoscopy at Camp David

Millions plead with doctors to locate and remove:

1. Bush's brain
2. John McCain's nose

Open Letter to Michael Vick

You don't just deserve suspension from the NFL. You don't just deserve jail time in the decades and fees in the 7 digits. You deserve a baseball bat to the side of the head. Repeatedly.

I'm not ordinarily an advocate of violence, but your behavior puts you right at the top of my People Who Desperately Need Six Kinds of Shit Kicked Out of Them, momentarily displacing Dick Cheney, which is a feat.

I sincerely hope that your professional life is over and that one day I see snaking pickles out of my toilet. I've got a bathtub and a toaster with your name on them.

For No Particular Reason

Was reading on Bladio Blogio a list of things which make her feel better on a slow-moving Monday. As I'm having a drag-your-feet Wednesday, I thought I might post up a picture that makes me laugh.

This is Beebs. Her name is actually Blackberry, but I doubt she's ever heard anyone call her that. She's always been Beebee or The Beebs. I call her my cheerleader cat -- cute, but a little ditsy and not the sharpest claw on the paw. If she had gone to high school, she would likely have been voted Most Likely to Be Startled by Sunrise. But she knows the value of a sunlit belly, and that's no small thing. (and neither is her belly, but she is on a diet)

Too Much Sex

in the City.

I told myself that I would never watch that show. Much as I like SJP, Sex is all about shopping and being fabulous, and I'm just not that kind of girl. The most expensive pair of shoes in my closet is by far my rock climbing shoes, and when shopping, I'm far more likely to resemble cartoon Cathy than glamorous Carrie, minus the shrieking. I'm more of a whimperer.

But I'm on NetFlix now (where all the cool kids hang out), and as my very dear friend E. is a big fan, I thought I'd give the show a shot. And in time, I did get hooked. I don't know these women or anyone like them, so it was a bit like watching gorgeous, exotic, tropical fish in a swanky, Manhattanesque aquarium: I stared from the outside, fascinated and a little seasick.

I suppose it's inevitable that just about any woman watching is going to wonder where she fits into the line-up. Am I most like wild and crazy Samantha? romantic and prudish Charlotte? silly and self-destructive Carrie? Sadly, I think I most resemble driven, cynical Miranda, only without her optimism and zest for life.

Ultimately, I am none of these women, nor would I want to spend much time with them in real life. If I had an extra $500, I'm about as likely to spend it on a donation to the Republican National Committee as I am to spend it on a pair of Manolo Blahniks (seriously, WTF? I don't get the idea of miniature boas for my feet -- my toes just aren't campy and fabulous enough to get away with it). $500 is most of the way to plane tickets for two to San Fran. or a dive computer.

So as I'm watching the umpty-umpth episode and trying NOT to see anyone's tits (was that just a ruse to get boyfriends to watch quietly with their girlfriends, 'cause I can't think of a good reason to make a predominantly female audience stare down yet another pair of tits every episode), I couldn't help but wonder:

Are they ever going to bring Arrested Development back?

Oh. My. God.

So, this was family reunion weekend. My father's family does this massive hug-eat-chat-eat-play games-eat-chat-eat-repeat thing once every three years or so. Now some of you may be flinching already, but I actually have a really fun family, and I look forward to these reunion things. My dad has six brothers and sisters, so I have lots of cousins and second cousins and etceteras that are very fun to hang out with, provided we steer clear of discussions involving politics and religion. If you've read my blog, you may realize that these are topics I find interesting and engaging, so steering clear is tricky. However, feeling obliged to bitchslap my otherwise-much-loved uncle across the potato salad is an impulse I could do without. So we play round after round of Oh Heck and throw horseshoes and go for walks and overeat with our kith and kin (well, maybe not our kith – we don’t like them) and generally have a merry ol' time. There are, unfortunately, a few bugs in this system.

And I mean bugs. We were staying at a very nifty YMCA camp in Montana, sleeping in bunks either in the main lodge (where I was) or in cabins. Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I felt a weird scrabbling sort of something going on in the left ear-ish area. I had the very unpleasant feeling that something had just taken up lodgings in my ear. There were thrummings and drummings and possibly the cast of RiverDance in rehearsal, but I put it down to swimmers' ear (despite my not having been near water except to shower) and tried to go back to sleep.

The next morning, there were still periods of vibration against my left ear drum. I kept shaking my head, feeling that watery feeling, but nothing was coming out. My dad tried to shove an entire Kleenex in there, but nothing grabbed hold. We looked with a flashlight, but couldn't see anything, so again I took refuge in denial and went about my business, periodically shaking my head like a demented spaniel. Happily, one of my aunts has been through a similar experience with a miller moth (well, not happily for her, but hang on, I'll get to the happily part), and even better, she has a son who is a physician's assistant. AND he carries his gear with him wherever he goes (smart, for a guy with two young sons and a cousin who potentially forgot to remove the 'for rent' sign when she moved into her own head).

My aunt wasn't about to let me go on denying the possibility of critters squatting uninvited in my head, so she asked her son to take a look. He got out one of those proper ear-looking-in machines, poked around for about a half a nanosecond, then said, "Yeah, there's something in there. We should get that out." Ugh. We filled a glass with warm tap water, and he used a syringe to flush out my ear. It took three squirts to dislodge my lodger (a spider affectionately known as "Craig" because naming him kept me from freaking out), who came out soaked but very much alive. The several cousins who were observing this whole event took off running (and so did Craig), but Doctor Cousin calmly sent Craig to his Eternal Reward via a very heavy boot. Another quick look-see determined that Craig had been in there alone. And that Craig wasn't actually a Craigette looking for a warm place to hatch a brood. I got the all-clear and a very clean ear. (And that's the "happily" part.) That night I slept -- sort of -- with my head swathed in more layers of gauze than Tutankhamen.

Moral: Kay the Anti-Camper may have a point.

So Very . . . . Seattle

Having been unceremoniously tossed from my condo, I'm now enjoying a quintessentially Seattle experience. I'm in a coffee shop on Capitol Hill, latte by one side, plate decorated with scone crumbs on the other, typing away on my laptop while listening to an mp3 player. It's break week (sort of, since I'm still teaching one class), so I could be at home right now, luxuriating in patches of sunlight with my cats, but the construction on my building continues. Today they're sealing some cement (last chance to ditch those bodies, kids!) on the first floor of the building, and since I live on the first floor, I can either hole up for the day or get out. As I do have to go to work, I opted for out. So here I am. Out, but taking all my accessories with me.

I was just having a humorous exchange with BF Toasty on Messenger, and I discovered a serious flaw in the whole latte experience: if you snort-laugh while preparing to take a sip, the foam covering disguises any accidental snubbling. (To snubble: to snort, accidentally, a snot bubble out the nose due to uncontrolled laughter) This latte foam-cover is both a good thing (I'd rather not know) and a bad (what if?). I have been reassured that coffee is a sterilizing medium, and I'm opting to believe that, since it's a fairly recent cup of coffee for which I paid a Nicaraguan's annual wage.

Several very good friends offered me crash space at their homes for the time when I'm not able to be at home, and while I appreciate this hugely, I'm looking on my involuntary ouster as an opportunity to eat scones and drink overpriced, hopefully snubble-free lattes.

PS My fat cats are officially On Diets (from 1/2 cup of food daily to 1/3), and I'm suddenly afraid to fall asleep at night. I fear waking up to find bits chewed off in the night. If I don't show up for an appointment within an hour of the appointed time (oh come on; I'm never more than AN HOUR late), someone come find me. Bring kibble.

Rags.

Hey, Who Pardoned Paris? (And Other Rantings)

Rant the First: So she had her fifteen minutes of fame, followed by her fifteen minutes in prison. I think we're sending the right message when spoiled little rich girls can drive around more tanked than the entire US armed forces in Iraq and get what amounts to a rap on the snoot in punishment. Yes, that's what this country is all about: the rich elude accountability and the poor vote Republican.

Rant the Second: I have a theory about all this immigration nonsense that everyone's spouting these days. Send them back, people cry! No amnesty for lawbreakers! And yet, not one of the hundreds of immigrants (legal and less so) that I've taught in my ESL classes has ever tried to pass off a measles-laden blanket on me. Not one has ever tried to shove firewater down my throat (though they do occasionally try to pass off meat-laden dishes at the potlucks), nor have they hustled me down a trail of tears onto a crap piece of lifeless desert. Not one has tried to sterilize me against my will. They haven't shuffled me off to prison or put my grinning idiot face on their baseball jerseys. All in all, I'd say these immigrants are a fair sight better than the last crop.

So here's my theory: Bush and Co. are to blame for a crap economy in which everyone below a six-figure income per annum is heading steadily down the slippery slope of economic depression and most of us are a single bad accident or illness away from serious financial difficulties; however! however! if they can just get us to believe it's ALL THE IMMIGRANTS' FAULT, well, come next election season we might just vote for the guys with the really big fence over the guys and gals with the actual ideas.

Don't fall for it. The people cleaning your hotel rooms and building your homes and picking your fruit and tending your gardens are not The Problem. They aren't terrorists or drug smugglers or even drains on the economy. Instead, they are people who work hard, really hard, for eight or more hours a day, then come to classes like mine for another three hours every evening. They send money home so that their families can afford to buy tortillas despite the insidious effects of NAFTA and our panhandling farmers. Bush and his disastrous regime are the ones responsible for the dire state of our economy. He can wave and point his hairy little fat fingers all he wants, but we won't be fooled, will we?

And they've all come to look for America

The Bus Ride by Hieronymous Bosch






Thanks to a fortuitous schedule and good weather, for the last few weeks I've been able to commute to work by a bus/bike combo. It's been really nice, actually: from one school to the other, I ride on three different trails, and I'm starting to develop nodding acquaintances with the commuters riding the other direction. One trail is apparently being used by the government to conduct wind-tunnel experiments, but apart from that, the riding part is cool.

The bad bit? The bus. Oy. What a collection of heavy-weight no-hopers. It's a bit like being picked up by the cops because I bear a distant resemblance to someone who once did something naughty, and now I'm spending my evenings slouched in my seat, trying not to be noticed or to shout out: "I don't belong here! I'm not one of you!" I wear my bike helmet the whole time which makes me look like one of the crazies, I suppose, but which also protects me from loogies, high-lobbed crack pipes, and the aliens which are apparently drilling holes in the head of the woman across from me. It's a sea of insanity, and me without my water wings.

Not everyone on the bus is nuts, of course, and the few of us who don't think we're Harry S. Truman (or Harriet Tubman, I can't tell; they mumble) cower in the front, practically sitting on the driver's lap for protection. As the shouting and animal noises continue in the back, we catch each other's eyes sympathetically, give tiny "we're all in this together" smiles and clutch our transfers -- tickets from this eighteen-wheeled Bosch painting to another one.

And naturally, buses in this area being what they are, the bus ride home is a mere 30 minutes shorter than the bike ride going the other direction. I would ride home, but it's late and dark by the time I leave class, and one of the trails is the Green River Trail, and that just seems like asking for it.

So to all the crazies and to the just plain bullying and rude: I see you. You have been seen. You may now stop acting like a performing monkey on crack just to get the attention of total strangers. We're all very impressed. Now shut up and sit down; the head-drilling aliens can't see you if you don't move.

Spittin' Distance

So there I am at the bus stop, all kitted out in my bike gear complete with smugface, and there's this totally gross guy who simply cannot quit spitting. After the first incident, which landed directly on the sidewalk in front of the bus stop, I gave him my Petrifying Gaze, and he managed to direct his phlegm to the gutter from then on out, but seriously, it was like every few seconds. Is this evidence of a glandular disorder, or what?

OK, I realize in the grand scheme of things, I rate pretty low on the Squeam Scale of Tolerance for All Things Gross, but this was beyond the pale. So I tackled him, rubbed his nose in it and said, "bad trashy bus-stop boy!" I think he got the point.

Huh, whut?

Thanks to Michael Oreal for photo of the original stud muffin.

Phone conversation with good friend (M) who happens to have a fairly thick Egyptian accent:

M: So, what are you reading now?
RA: Tales of the City
M: Ah! I'm a stud muffin.
RA: (long pause) What?
M: I'm a stud muffin.
RA: Er. . . . congratulations?
M: What?
(confusion)
RA: Congratulations. Very pleased for you.
M: What?
(light dawns)
RA: Ohhhhhhhhh! You said 'Armistead Maupin!'
M: Of course. What did you think I said?
RA: I thought you said you were a stud muffin.
M: Why would I say that?
RA: I don't know. Hence the confusion.

Peeing in the Park

Thanks, Guzer, for the photo. (media3.guzer.com)

My toilet broke. I don't want to talk about why, except to say that I thought I was saving my garbage disposal from overload, and now my toilet is broken. Let's just say that Vlasic has a lot of explaining to do.

Two days of peeing in the public restrooms at a nearby park later, the plumbers have arrived, and I'm trying to ignore comments like, "Yeah, Miss, looks like we're going to have to snake ya."

It's going to cost me $285.05 to "stop freakin'." That's a good thing, 'cause I actually was. Freakin'. Minus the "g," with the apostrophe, full-on FREAKIN'. I do not like icky things, and toilets fall into that category with a resounding thump. (PS. So do the toilets at the park, but there you go.) All my pretentions of being a self-sufficient, independent, go-it-alone type gal melt and so do I. Several desperate phone calls to actual self-sufficient people later (and a few tears to mommy), I finally realize that there is one very independent, self-sufficient thing I can do: I can call a plumber.

Update: Just heard a very happy flushing sound, but it appears that the snake has his wee head caught. Hmmmm.

Update update: snake's free. Plumber isn't, but worth every penny. Thanks, boys, and not a butt crack in sight!


--Rags

Some of My Best Friends are Women

I can't believe that in the 21st Century, we still have to convince some people that women are autonomous beings with the right to determine what happens to their own bodies. OK, once more for the in-bred, in simple terms:

If you truly believed in saving babies, you'd be vegetarian (eliminating meat consumption would mean sufficient food supplies for all). You'd donate your money to provide vaccinations for 3rd world children, you'd fight against malaria, HIV, abuse and neglect, global warming, war, famine and despotism. You'd adopt children -- even the "flawed" children that you've fought so hard to "save." Do you do these things? All of these? Or do you wave misspelled signs at Planned Parenthood clinics, do you harass women confronting a decision that is never easy, do you shoot doctors, bomb medical facilities, cheer for a "president" and a pope who do everything they can to ensure that women can't exert any measure of control over avoiding unwanted pregnancies in the first place?

Anti-Choice is Anti-Women. There is no other debate to be had here. You don't love babies. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born into lives of misery and want. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born, then attempt to cut off money and aid to their parents. You wouldn't force them to be born, then leave them, helpless, to their own devices.

"I got you here, kid. I saved you. Now you're on your own." Yeah, you're a big fucking hero.

Remember this: Government by the religious extremists is the philosophy of the Taliban.

Remember this: Forcing women to submit to your control over their bodies is rape. So what does that make you?

Climb back into your Bibles and back into the 15th Century. Your kind is not needed here.

Meaningless

The enormously disHonorable Alberto Gonzales. Latest fatuous dickhead fall-guy for the clown some still insist on calling "President."

The most meaningless words in the English language have got to be, "I take full responsibility." Alberto Gonzales said them today, Bush-ites -- sorry, that should read "Bu-shites" -- have been saying them over and over and over for the past six years. "Mistakes were made," they say. "I take full responsibility."

Big fucking deal. If there are no repercussions, no punishment or penalty, if absolutely nothing changes, these words are as meaningless as any other lie put forward for political efficacy.

The Bush administration has made perfectly clear that honesty is not a priority. So how about these words:

"Impeachment. Trial. Prison."

You want to "take responsibility," then do it. But let's make sure it actually means something for a change.

What day is it?

The Mr. Incredible band-aid makes almost anything better.




Oh right. It's Friday the 13th. Any day that you wake up to discover a note reading "625-5011 Seattle Police, Non-Emergency" hastily scribbled on a sheet of paper and taped to your door is likely not going to be a good day. I called the cops (my immediate thought is that I'm in trouble for something; from whence did I come by this guilt-ridden conscience?), they put me on hold, transferred me around, did the dial-tone jig, traced my name and address, blah dee blah, nothing. So I'm thinking whew, dodged that bullet, when I suddenly wonder if there could be something amiss with my car.

I head down to the "secure" parking garage, only to find that MacArthur's driver's side, back-seat wing mirror has been bashed in. Nothing's missing -- likely my alarm (or lack of interesting-slash-valuable property) has sent them packing. Back inside to call the police again. The police, as ever in genuine emergencies, snap into action. They bravely take down my name and number and heroically offer to call me back sometime today. Breathless at the selflessness of these, Seattle's finest, I retreat to the couch to wait them out. In due time they call me back, take a bunch more information, and then -- you won't believe it . . . wait for it . . . . they ASSIGN ME AN INCIDENT NUMBER! I know! It's incredible, isn't it? They don't pay these people enough!

All kidding aside, the police officer I talked to was extremely nice and sweetly apologetic that writing all this down was as much as they could do. I didn't actually expect to have Horatio and the Miami CSI crawling all over my car, finding hair (plenty of that in my car), torn off Press-On nails, tooth fragments, cigarette butts with epithelials clinging to the filter, all the usual detritus that criminals can't seem to hold on to when actually committing crimes (honestly, on TV those guys are like PigPen, with stuff just dripping off of them all over the crime scene), but I thought, you know, come lift a print (besides mine), poke around, you never know. I thought maybe Horatio could say something pithy like, "They realized this garage is not so secure. Well now, neither are they," and put on his sun glasses and dramatically walk away to that high-pitched yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaah from the Who song. Hey, a girl can dream.

Instead, I spent 20 minutes picking glass out of my Jetta. Did you know that bumblebees don't biodegrade? I swear that thing was knocking around in there two summers ago, and he looked just as fat and jolly (and dead) as ever when I plucked him from under some debris in the back seat. Weird.

Well, at least they didn't steal my impressive empty-Diet-Pepsi-can collection. Those are going to be worth serious bucks someday.

--R

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. died yesterday, age 84. Although he probably wouldn't agree, it was much too soon. I got to see Vonnegut speak once at the UW. It was wonderful, but once is not nearly enough.

One of my favorite bits is from Deadeye Dick in which the title character is lured out of hibernation and into an opera. The heroine of the opera, trapped in a glass case from which the oxygen is slowly being sucked, opens her mouth to begin her death-aria. At this point, Dick stands up and shouts, "You'd last a lot longer if you don't try to sing." I love that.

My other favorite Vonnegut moment is the story he told about the world's greatest practical joke. A couple of guys bought a park bench exactly like the benches in Central Park in NYC. They walked around the park, periodically being stopped by cops who thought they were stealing the bench. Each time, they produced their receipt and graciously accepted the apologies. After they'd seen and been stopped by every cop in the park, they stole all the benches. They made a big pile of them somewhere in the park, carrying them to a sort of elephant graveyard for benches right under the nose of the law. This story is likely totally apocryphal, but it's so plausible as to be almost believeable, and I love it anyway.

He also told about the world's dirtiest limerick. It's awful. I'll tell you the story, but you have to promise not to tell my mother. Or yours.

I like to think that Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams are in some sort of Writers' Heaven right now, drunk, presumably trying to cheer up Spalding Gray and talk Hunter S. Thompson down off the ceiling.

Poo tee weet.